


Indecent

by kscribbles



Category: Fright Night (2011)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Public Sex, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-08
Updated: 2012-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 19:21:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kscribbles/pseuds/kscribbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Peter/Charley - Sex in public! Don't care how, or why, but over-sexed Peter seducing reluctant Charley in a public/semi-public place must happen! I'm thinking change room while clothes shopping, but whatever the filler wants is good</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indecent

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the lj community FrightNight2011's kinkmeme: http://frightnight2011.livejournal.com/718.html

Charley had said ‘no thanks’ in at least a dozen different ways. Peter didn’t seem to be getting the message.

“I'm offering you a shopping spree, which believe me, you’re due for,” Peter explained to him. “My treat. Most people would say thank you and ask where to first. Not bitch about how much they don't need it.”

Charley frowned. Peter was generous, too generous, which often made him uncomfortable. But more than that, wasn't Peter giving him a sort of a backhanded compliment? Like, 'You're so great, I want to buy you many things, but your taste _sucks_.'

“But what's wrong with my clothes?” Charley complained. “Not enough black?” He plucked at Peter's dark shirt in emphasis.

“For a start.” Peter nodded, either not noticing or not caring that he was being mocked. “Also way too much flannel.”

“I like these shirts!” Charley protested. “They're comfortable.”

“You're not a _farm hand_ , Charley. And plaid is so 2009. Or 1992.” Peter shuddered.

Charley looked down at his plaid shirt. Okay, so maybe it was a little... drab.

“Fine,” he grumbled, relenting. “Where to first?” he dutifully parroted, putting as little enthusiasm as possible into the question.

“ _That's_ the spirit.”

“Nothing leather!” Charley warned.

 

* * *

 

“You know,” Charley said to him in a low voice from behind a pile of clothing, as they walked toward the fitting rooms, “most guys don't go into changing rooms together.”

Peter shrugged, opening the door to a largeish stall. “It's easier than me sitting outside enduring a slow, boring fashion show.” The kid was far too worried about appearances. Ironic since he didn't seem to give a shit about what he _looked like_. Peter had practically had to beg to take him out shopping. “And I don't think I need to remind you what other things we do together that—”

“Dude,” Charley hissed. “Keep your voice down.”

Peter sat on the provided bench, laughing. “Relax, there’s no one else in these rooms. And really, you embarrass far too easily, Charley. It's cute.” He leaned back against the wall, withdrew a flask from his pocket and took a drink. “What, 'fraid your name will end up in the tabloids? Nobody cares if you take it up—”

“ _DUDE_.” Charley turned a delightful shade of pink, and Peter laughed again. “Be _have_ ,” Charley demanded.

“Or what?” Peter loved when Charley tossed empty threats at him. It was adorable.

“Or...” But he couldn’t even think of a threat, disarmed, Peter knew, by Peter’s own smile. Charley, embarrassed and amused simultaneously, was Peter’s favorite kind of Charley. Well, _almost_ favorite.

“Fine, fine. Relax, kid. Here, try this on.” He picked up whatever was on top of the pile next to him and flicked it towards Charley.

The next few minutes consisted of Charley trying on many different shirts, and Peter saying things like, “No,” “No,” “Never,” “Really?” “No,” “You can’t be serious,” and “No.”

“You don’t like ANY thing I picked,” Charley practically whined.

“That’s true,” Peter acknowledged, looking at the pile next to him. Things _he’d_ picked were at the bottom of the stack. He eyed Charley again, in scuffed baggy jeans and a vest top. “It’s not your shirt,” Peter said appraisingly. “Though get that undershirt off.” Charley dutifully complied, baring his pale, toned chest. Peter tried not to get distracted. “It’s the trousers,” he proclaimed. “Nothing will look good over those jeans. Off.”

Charley rolled his eyes and sighed, but did as Peter asked, unlacing his shoes before kicking off his jeans. He stood in just his socks and boxer shorts, expectantly. “Okay, Master of Dark Fashion Forces, now what?”

Peter dragged his eyes away from Charley and picked through the pile, finally coming up with a pair of tight black jeans he’d pulled off a rack earlier. He looked at them, then back at Charley. “Lose the boxers, Charley.”

“What? Dude, you don’t go commando in another—”

“It’ll just be for a moment, and boxer shorts will never work under these.” He held out the trousers and shook them in Charley’s direction.

“Fine.” Charley bent and whipped off his pants before eying Peter and lowering his voice. “But there are easier ways of getting me naked.”

Oh he just _had_ to, didn’t he? Here Peter was trying to behave, as requested, and Charley— _naked_ Charley—was talking about ways he’s got him into such states, and with his fucking bedroom voice. Sure, Charley’s voice was lowered for volume’s sake, not seduction’s, but that didn’t seem to make a difference to Peter’s baser instincts. He threw the jeans at Charley. “Just try these on.” He took another drink and tried to ignore his growing arousal before he started getting hard in semi-public like a goddamned kid.

But watching Charley step into and pull up the jeans, _covering up_ some of what was so enticing, wasn’t helping. It was making it worse. They were just the right amount of tight, made him look leaner, if that was possible, and the dark color set off his pale skin. It drew Peter’s eyes up his legs to Charley’s chest, far more perfectly sculpted than a geeky kid just out of high school should have, by rights.

“So?” Charley asked, turning to him and buttoning up the jeans.

Peter just stared, his mouth having gone a little dry.

“Peter? You picked these. Do you like them or not?” 

Peter shook himself from his trance. There was really only one solution to his predicament. Semi-public be damned, he needed to touch Charley as soon as possible. “I think they’ll do,” he said, standing and grabbing another item of his choosing, a dark blue shirt. “But I’m not entirely sure. Hang on.”

Peter turned Charley to face the mirror again and stood behind him. Tossing the shirt onto his shoulder, Peter ran his hands along the waistline of the jeans, pretending to check the fit, tugging a little now and again, fingers smoothing over the warm skin beneath.

Charley caught Peter’s eyes over his bare shoulder, in the mirror. Charley swallowed, his eyes transfixed. “Is that um… strictly necessary?” he asked, his breath catching.

“Strictly?” Peter replied, grinning, stroking Charley’s stomach just above the top of the jeans. “Nope. But we do want to make sure they fit properly.”

“Do they?” Charley’s voice dipped low again, seemingly without the kid’s intention.

“I think so. But we need to see the whole ensemble.” Peter quickly removed his hands and Charley released a breath he’d been holding.

“Peter, what do you think you’re—?”

“Hush,” Peter commanded. “Someone might hear you. Give me your arm.”

Charley lifted his arm automatically and Peter slipped one sleeve of the blue button-up onto it. Together they repeated the movement on his other arm and the silky material lay draped over him. It was Peter’s turn to swallow as he observed the picture Charley made in the mirror. Those damn jeans, the unbuttoned shirt. They were working together destroy him. Now that they’d been slipped on, he wanted to rip the clothes _off_ Charley, fuck him here on the carpet, in a fitting room stall, hard enough, loud enough to get them both arrested.

He resisted the impulse, and went about his task of buttoning the shirt for Charley, but not before his hands took a slow detour along Charley’s ribs, beneath the shirt. Arms around Charley, he started at the bottom, watching what he was doing in the mirror, trying not to be distracted by the reversed image of his actions, or the image itself—the picture they made.

“Peter?” Charley breathed.

Peter glanced up to his face and saw that his young friend was clearly aroused. When he lowered his eyes to the jeans again, he confirmed it.

“Yeah, Charley?” They locked eyes in the mirror again, and Peter couldn’t help rock his hips a bit, letting Charley feel his own growing erection against him.

“Seriously, what are you doing?”

“Seeing if this outfit works,” he answered innocently, doing up the last button. Now Charley was, excepting the hard-on, perfectly decent. And Peter’s urge to do _indecent_ things to him hadn’t lessened even a little.

“Works for _who_?” Charley choked out as Peter slipped his hands back under the loose fitting shirt.

“Well you seem to like it.” In emphasis, he ran his palm over where tight denim was made even tighter and Charley shuddered against him. Ever so slowly, Peter eased the top button of the jeans from its hole.

“That… that’s not my fault. You’re all… handsy.”

Peter popped another button and smiled. Briefly he abandoned the buttons, grabbed Charley’s hips and pushed against him again. “That’s not my fault either. You’re all… Charley.”

Charley groaned. “Fuck, Peter, what—?”

“Sshh,” Peter admonished again, reaching around again to undo another button. He slipped his hand inside and pulled Charley’s cock from its confines, giving it a firm stroke.

“You’re crazy,” Charley said through gritted teeth, his eyes flashing with lust, amusement, a hint of panic at getting caught.

Peter repeated the movement again, then again, speeding up his pace with each stroke. “Want me to stop?”

He watched Charley’s gaze drop, taking in the movements. Charley licked his lips, and then raised his eyes again. “No. Please.”

Charley’s breathing sped up as Peter’s stroking continued. Charley reached back and grabbed at Peter, scrabbling for purchase, settling on hooking his fingers in Peter’s belt. The kid held on tight as his hips gave small little jerks, pushing into Peter’s tight fist. Charley’s eyes slid shut in the mirror as he got closer to coming.

“No,” Peter chided, amazed at how collected he sounded. “Watch.”

Charley whimpered, but dragged his eyes open, as commanded.

“Look at you,” Peter went on, keeping his voice low. Peter looked too, taking in Charley’s blue eyes darkened, his flushed face, the sweat beginning to dampen his forehead. Peter looked away long enough to place a hot kiss beneath Charley’s ear. “You look so fucking good like this.”

He tightened his fist, twisted his wrist a little, putting some flourish into it. Charley drew in a harsh breath through his nose and bit his lip.

“Do you know how often I have to keep myself from pouncing on you?” Peter whispered darkly. “You always look good, Charley.”

“Even…” Charley barely managed, so close now, “…even in my own clothes?”

“Fuck yes.”

“Peter, I’m—”

Right, that. Peter hadn’t quite thought this through. But he quickly spied Charley’s discarded boxers on the floor, kicked them up with his boot, and caught them with his left hand, not breaking his rhythm for a second. Seconds later, Charley was coming beneath said underwear, teeth biting his lip white to keep from groaning, eyes sliding shut again.

Peter held him, stroking him through it, half-holding him up as he brought him down.

They were both still then, as Charley leaned against Peter to catch his breath, waiting to see if some security guard or shop attendant was going to come banging on the door. There was nothing but the piped in music and the distant bustle of the shop.

“I think,” Peter said after a few moments, “we should take these jeans. What do you think?

Charley got out of the borrowed clothing as quickly as he could. “I think they work,” he said. 

“Good.” Peter tossed Charley his own clothes. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” He wanted to get back to his flat as soon as humanly possible, to finish what they’d started.

Charley paused while getting dressed again and eyed Peter up and down, a frown crossing his face when he saw how… unfulfilled Peter was. “But… what about you?” he asked.

Peter considered. “I think I should carry the shopping.”

 

FIN


End file.
